Home
by Nakanna Lee
Summary: House and Wilson try to work out their differences, but can sharing an apartment ever work? Friendship, eventually slash. First fic on this site. Reviews appreciated. Final chapter added!
1. Piano

He'd been playing some rendition of something. It was a rare occasion when House meandered over to the piano while Wilson was at the apartment. Usually, he waited until the young doctor had gone out to retrieve groceries or worked late, or was sleeping so soundly that House could lightly compose something without disturbing him, or drawing unwanted attention to himself.

Wilson was never quite sure why.

It had been a painfully long day at the hospital. Wilson was foggy on the details as to what had happened among the ducklings, but dissention towards House appeared inevitable. From Foreman, conflict was appreciated; from Chase, though, it was haughty, and Cameron was annoyingly willing to go along with the majority. There had been such a distressing rift, apparently, that House hadn't even bothered to meet Wilson for lunch.

He'd come back to the apartment late, too. After wordlessly heating up the leftovers Wilson threw together earlier that evening, he retreated to his room, stuffed green pepper on his plate and whiskey bottle in hand. Wilson thought of making some humorous comparison to a moping teenager, but House never poked his head out again. Something was obviously off kilter, but whatever it was, House didn't want to let Wilson in on it.

The couch had become just as comfortable as his old bed, and Wilson drifted off to sleep around twelve. A tingling sensation slipped through to his consciousness hours later. He realized it wasn't a physical interruption-it was a musical one.  
Straining to hear, he could catch the piano notes floating out from House's bedroom. He lied still on the couch and, despite it being three o'clock in the morning, listened appreciatively. The piano sounded too sensitive and ethereal to be coming from the tall, gruff doctor who had somehow, someway, become his best friend.

House had told him specifically that he didn't like him hovering over his shoulder while he played. He claimed Wilson ruined the ambiance if he could hear the oncologist shifting from foot to foot, hands in pockets, trying to decipher the notes that ran frantically over the treble and bass clef lines.

Opportunity to listen in came few and far between. Wilson rubbed his reddened eyes, sitting up on the couch, and listened reservedly from a distance.

Notes unwound themselves, pained in instances, then stretching out, relieving themselves of pent-up fatigue and guilt in their melodies. A burst of revelation and freedom kicked up at the end. Wilson felt the surprise coursing through him, moved by the harmonious rapture of the instrument. The sound was so uncharacteristic of House.  
Heavy and cramped with sleep but tired of merely musing on the couch, Wilson quietly crept toward the bedroom and stood furtively in the doorway. From behind, House seemed distant and unflawed. Half of the stuffed pepper was deserted on a plate, where it set on a desktop scattered with patients' medical charts and open, half-read books. A ubiquitous container of Vicodin and the bottle of whiskey were setting on top of the piano, both running suspiciously low.  
Only the cane propped on the side of the bench hinted of his limitations. Some days, Wilson was grateful House carried that limp. It was like the thorn in his side. Without it, he just might have been untouchable. House might not have had a need for him.

Yes. The cane humanized him. Even more conveniently, it gave him the perfect excuse to be miserable, to keep happiness at an arm's distance.

At a cane's distance.

He hated pity, though Wilson never gave him any. The younger man offered empathy instead, which House despised more.  
The final flurry of notes faded, replaced by the brittle rattle of Vicodin pills. Wilson listened to the ensuing silence, searching for the faintest piece of piano music that might still cling to the air. The entire apartment had been overflowing before. No wonder House had that piano. It filled the emptiness, even for a moment.

"What, no applause?"

Wilson startled. "How did you...?"

"You haven't been snoring for the past hour. Either it's a miracle or you haven't been asleep." House, still not turning to face him, gave a brusque nod of his head. "You might as well come in, unless you'd rather stand there."

House never failed to surprise him. Wilson supposed he should have expected that by now. He'd witnessed enough of his clever medical deductions-derived from nothing more than a few casual observations-to whittle off the amazement factor.

But sometimes, he figured, the longer you know someone, the more you realize you never really do know them.  
Still, a part of him was convinced that House-despite all the pretext, all the flaunting, all the arrogance-was ridiculously easy to figure out. But that was one puzzle he'd yet to crack.

Sighing, draining the drowsiness from his body, Wilson pulled up a chair at a desk across from the bed and diagonal from his friend. House glanced over the piano keys for a moment, then turned his body a bit on the bench to meet Wilson's eyes.

"I'm still waiting for that applause."

"Encore, encore," Wilson replied with a frivolous wave of his hand. "Humility is so overrated."

"So is sleep, apparently." House glanced over Wilson's face, noting the deep umbrage that hung below his russet eyes. "If you're trying to look like a bruised prize-fighter, my compliments."

Wilson gave a short laugh. "Thanks. I figure the key is to look desperate when I go house-hunting this week."

"You're moving out, then."

"If my phone calls aren't erased, yes. I think I'll just give out my cell number this time." He broke off, considering. "Well, I guess that was stupid to tell you. Should I expect to find my phone floating in the toilet by morning now?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," House lamented as he stretched stiffly. Wilson noted his white t-shirt and sweatpants were unwrinkled, a clear sign that he hadn't been sleeping much, either. After a sip of whiskey, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, rearranging the pile of sheet music with the other.

"You're good." Wilson watched his expression carefully. "I wouldn't have thought that."

"What? The piano?"

"Yes. I guess I just thought it was some vain decoration to throw in your apartment."

"And all those trophies in your office... Little League baseball stuff, am I right? On the losing team, but hey, give the kids some prize for trying."

"Hah-hah. You're even funnier in the morning." Wilson wracked his brain to remember House having mentioned when he'd ever made time to study music, but couldn't recall. "So is this your back-up plan? If another Vogler ever shows up and sacks you, you'll fall back on a musical career?"

"Please. Let's not invoke the Name of Evil in this apartment."

Wilson grinned. "Sorry. But you obviously took time enough to learn piano, so it had to be worth something."

"It was either this or flamenco."

Wilson laughed, his nose crinkling boyishly and eyes creasing with light-hearted crows' feet. Sometimes, House forgot just how young he really was. It made him wonder if he himself had really ever been like that, too. That damn bum leg seemed like an infinitely present curse he'd had to drag around all throughout his life.

"So your secret dream is to play professionally?" Wilson prompted conspiratorially. "I'll never tell."

"But how I miss flamenco!"

Wilson smiled, but a calm composure had settled on him now. "Seriously, House. Did you ever consider...? I mean, if you weren't a doctor, what would you be?"

"Insane."

The oncologist brushed off the comment. "You're already multitasking with that. I mean professionally. What would you do"  
House paused for an instant, counseling the ceiling. "I suppose I would turn to my Three Step Plan."

"Which is...?"

"Step One: Win the lottery. Step Two: Spend the tax-reduced sum with complete disregard for everything except my personal happiness. Step Three: Repeat."

He could be so annoyingly wry at times. "Funny. I would've thought you'd at least corner the Vicodin market"  
"We can always bump that up to a Four Stepper." House grinned, the whiskey evidently loosening his spirits. "And you, Dr. James Wilson? What was your big dream squashed under medical school?"

"Actually..."

Wilson mentally flipped back through the years. Well, disregarding that one childhood obsession of wanting to be a Secret Service Agent/Stunt Double/Paper Boy, his list of dreams had been almost blandly short.  
"...I think I've always wanted to be a doctor."

"Borrrrring." House looked him over with a half-hidden smirk. "I see you on Broadway. Big, righteous, dramatic monologues under the stage lights. _Oncology Boy_. It would be like _Cats_ only ten-times better."

Wilson raised his eyebrows, amused. "You've never even seen _Cats_. And I don't know how either of those relate."

"Hmm, let's see. Cats have nine lives, and with your brilliant medical diagnoses, you'd give people another chance at their pathetic human existence."

"I'm sure that makes sense on whatever delusional plane you're on."

"It makes perfect sense."

"All right," Wilson grinned, drawing himself up from his chair. He hastily snatched away the near-empty whiskey bottle, which sat next to the pills like an old friend. He waved it out to the side, just beyond House's grasp. "No more drinking for you."

"No fair."

Setting the bottle safely to the floor, Wilson took a seat beside the other man on the piano bench. Awkwardly, he picked out the only song he knew how to play on the keys: _Hot Cross Buns_.

"Your talent astounds me, Jimmy."

Wilson glanced up at the personal name. The whiskey really must have gone to his head. He smiled and gestured to the keys, feeling more confident in his attempts to coax further piano playing from his friend. "Well, if I'm the star of _Oncology Boy_, you're going to be composing the musical arrangement."

"Of course. Something toe-tapping." House's fingers leisurely trailed across the ivory, as simply as one might shuffle a deck of cards, or set a table, or an artist might sketch a face. An astonishing smidgen of grace and sensitivity seemed to spark from his fingertips as they persuaded melody from the piano keys. Wilson let himself drown in the sweetly unexpected concord. It picked up to a rapid dance of carnival music, then grew dramatic, quiet, and finished upbeat again. It took all of fifteen seconds, but Wilson wanted to store the memory under lock and key.

House looked up with sardonic panache. "What do you think? It says, 'Yes, I have cancer-but God, look at me dance"  
Bursting out laughing, Wilson shook his head. If it hadn't been for all the manipulative side-digs House inflicted on everyone, he might just be likable.

But of course, that was the last thing he wanted. Misery loves company, yes, but House just loved the company of misery itself.

"Well, you look somber all of a sudden," House interrupted, sending Wilson's thoughts askew. "What, did you just realize we only have two hours until work? That does put a damper on everything, doesn't it?"

Wilson blinked, caught up in the sharp blue irises that stared inquisitively at him. If he could just figure him out.  
House looked away, shoving the music sheets to the side as he reached for the Vicodin one last time. In between popping pills, he muttered, "I'm going to try to sleep. You should too. There're some patients I want you to look at tomorrow, and I'd appreciate it if you weren't falling asleep on the job. Cuddy only has time to humor me."

"Right."

"Pass the whiskey."

"I thought you were going to bed."

"Well, a glass of water beforehand makes me want to pee, and warm milk makes me puke. You aren't going to leave me thirsty, are you?"

Wilson didn't move. "It's nearly finished."

"Well, then, let me officially empty it."

When it became apparent Wilson wasn't budging, House leaned over him, reaching for the bottle. Wilson caught his breath at the contact, shirts rustling together, limbs stretching over limbs.

The whiskey was still too far away. House sat up, disgusted, leaving Wilson alone in his space again. He glared at the younger man. "Help a cripple, would you."

Wilson fought to clear his throat. "I am. No more drinking for tonight. And-" he glanced at the other precarious bottle still in front of House "-let's lay off of these drugs of choice, all right."

As Wilson gathered himself to his feet, House's expression faded from defensive to reflective. He spoke, eyes scanning the sheet music, as if he were reading from the clefs. "All geniuses had their drug of choice. It opened the door to their brilliance"  
"And 'Dr. Greg House,' another name to add to the list." Wilson reached down and rescued the whiskey bottle before moving toward the hallway again.

"I'm in great company. Look at Nostradamus. There's a guy who smoked opium, and look at all the fun stuff he predicted. Too bad the aliens never came in '99."

Only House could take a drugged-out mystic and turn him into a saint. Wilson stood in the doorway, unable to place his hesitancy to leave. He was tired; his body ached for the couch. Work would be hell tomorrow if he didn't catch even the lightest of sleep. Still, though.

Wilson sighed at the image of House retrieving his cane. Even those three steps to the bed were perilous without its support. He still clenched the pills in his spare hand. There was no changing him.

"So... drug of choice. Yours is Vicodin, I presume?"

"Nope." House hid a grimace as he turned to look at Wilson. "I've developed a tolerance for these fancy little pills. A drug has to have a bit of an edge for it to work."

Wilson paused, puzzled, wondering if he should be concerned about what other stimulants House was taking. "So... What's your drug of choice, then?"

House shrugged offhandedly, the word sounding light and unimportant. "You."

The bedroom lamp clicked off before Wilson had even left. Numb, feeling as if he'd just missed something incredibly profound, he stumbled tiredly back to House's couch.

He stared at the apartment ceiling but didn't sleep. By morning, the rest of the whiskey was gone.


	2. Patients

Princeton-Plainsboro hospital sprawled neatly out on the New Jersey lawn. If there was one thing Wilson was grateful for, it was that the building didn't quite scream "hospital" at first glance. He'd worked at a few harrowing places that looked sick right down to the architecture. But this place, it was presentable.

Well, it almost had to be, to try and make up for some unprofessional tendencies on the inside.

Wilson hadn't seen House that morning--oddly enough, the latter had beaten him to work. Even before Wilson had unearthed a reasonably ironed shirt to wear for the day, House's motorcycle had long been sitting in its reserved parking space.  
The oncologist thought back to the mysterious feud of the day before. _House returning to work early_, Wilson mulled over. That alone indicated things were awry within the team.

He'd thought about their conversation the night before-or rather, the one that happened ridiculously early that morning. Strange that House shouldn't have even let something slip about whatever was wrong, even just to annoy him. Best bet, it had something to do with Cameron again.

A sharpness jolted through his stomach suddenly. Wonderful. The joys of whiskey were returning to plague him for the rest of the day. There hadn't been much in the bottle, but he'd finished it off pretty quickly, as if trying to drink down whatever odd feelings had betrayed themselves over the piano. Wilson shook back his side-parted bangs. Most definitely lack of sleep, he assured himself. Exhaustion and stress can explain a lot.

"Dr. Wilson, just the man I wanted to see."

The doors to the hospital had just swung open and Cuddy was already pouncing on him. Her pinched expression looked particularly taut today. Wilson instinctively checked his watch. Just after seven. That hardly gave anything enough time to morph into a full-blown disaster.

But he'd been wrong before.

"What's happening?"

Cuddy took him by the arm and ushered him along faster. Her voice dropped, picking up speed. "House left a message on my phone this morning. He said he needed to talk to you about a patient."

"Yes, well, he mentioned that last night."

"Except... I didn't think the patient's name could be right."

Wilson was unperturbed. It took a lot to get him frazzled. "So he gave a false name. It's House; don't try to figure it out."

"That's what I thought, too. But then..." Cuddy opened the blinded doors to her office. Hastily crossing the room, she dug out the phone from under a pile of papers she'd been reviewing. "I got a call from Foreman about the patient. And Chase. And then Cameron. All regarding that same patient."

Wilson furrowed his brows, arms crossed over his chest. "What was wrong with the name? I assume he could just have easily gone with John Doe if it would cause that much of a problem."

Cuddy didn't answer. She merely switched on the answering machine and played the messages back.

_BEEP_. "Cuddy. Rise and shine. I mean you, not those two on the front of your shirt. Listen, I have a patient upstairs and need some medical records on this guy. Name: Dr. James Wilson, 36-year-old male. Oh yeah. And he's not our Wilson." -House

_BEEP_. "Dr. Cuddy, ehm, Dr. House is wondering if you've gotten those records yet? He says he actually needs a medical history this time. It's important." -Chase

_BEEP_. "House just had Cameron look at a Petrie dish. We're thought it might've been an immunodeficiency, but Doctor--sorry, it just sounds wrong--Doctor Wilson's white blood count seems fine." -Foreman

_BEEP_. "Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House is really wondering what's taking you so long with those records. He says you gave us our Wilson's, not this guy's. He says they physically don't even look anything alike. Which is good, I guess, otherwise that would be just a bit weird." -Cameron

"Honestly, this whole situation is weird," Cuddy said, shaking her head as the messages clicked off and ended. "I don't know what they're doing, but I couldn't find a single record on this guy. Maybe he changed his name."

Wilson glanced from the phone to Cuddy, then back to the phone again. A patient had an identical age, an identical name, and an identical title to his own?

"What are the odds," Wilson muttered, silently promising himself that never again would he drink whiskey so early in the morning.

"Well, I'm just glad it's not you. From what I'm hearing from the team--"

Wilson held up a hand. "Wait, I thought they were fighting."

"Fighting?"

"Yes. Arguing over something. The way House was acting last evening, I figured something had happened between them."

Cuddy shook her head slowly, confused. "I talked to Foreman before he went home yesterday. He said everything was fine. No problems."

"Really? And House...?"

"Miserable as usual. He's fine. Why?"

"I don't know." Wilson scratched his head aimlessly, feeling as if he were left out of the loop. "Maybe it's just me."

"Well, as long as it's not you they're poking and prodding at in the emergency room. They can't make any headway on what's causing any of his symptoms."

"House doesn't have ideas?"

"I've been trying to get a hold of him, but the he's not answering any of his calls."

"That surprises you?"

"Of course not. But he hasn't checked in with the team in two hours, either." She paused, admiring the irony. "Usually, that would make me happy."

"He's been in here since five?"

"And he called all three of the others in here too. I don't know what ethical codes they've been breaking with since then, but you're the only sane person I have left." She sighed, shrugging her shoulders with the tiredness she specially saved for House's antics. "Track down House. I'm sure you'll be able to help diagnosis Wilson, Wilson." She paused, rubbing her temples. "This really is too bizarre for a Monday morning."

Wilson took the elevator to his office, thinking quickly. He could drop off his briefcase and jacket, then run over to the interns' white board room and see firsthand what was going on. If nothing enlightening was there, he could redirect himself over to House's office-maybe he'd returned, or at least left some hint as to where he was going; after all, his motorcycle was still in the parking lot. He wasn't getting far with his cane. If all else failed, he could check the roof. Yes, the roof. He almost always hid out on that roof--

"Wilson. There you are. Running...fifteen minutes late, I see. I guess Cuddy got to you already."

"_House_." Wilson gaped at him, where he reclined back on Wilson's chair, feet propped up languidly on the oncologist's desk. A few of House's favorite magazines--and none of medical variety, Wilson thought dryly--sprawled out in front of him. A bag of Lays' potato chips was half-eaten. Crumbs were scattered everywhere.

"You really need a TV in here."

"You really need to get _out_ of here," Wilson cut in. "Everyone's been looking for you. You've just deserted your patient for a _snack_?"

House followed Wilson's eyes to the bag of greasy chips. "No. These are my breakfast."

Wilson spread out his hands, turning his gaze upward for a moment. Cuddy was right. It was far too early for this already.

"Interesting case, I'm sure you've heard."

"Yes. So interesting, you're not even working on it."

"There's nothing to work on."

Wilson's mouth practically dropped open as his friend swiped some chips off his shirt. "House. You have a man with an unknown illness sprawled out somewhere in this hospital, and you don't think there's anything to work on?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you this concerned over a patient. Wouldn't have anything to do with his name, would it? Bias isn't good in medicine, you know."

Wilson leaned over the desk and plucked the Lays bag from his lap and gave his feet a push off his desk, though he made sure he hit the left leg, not the right.

"You're going to get yourself back down to the interns and figure this out. I'm not babysitting anymore."

"Relax." Reaching for his cane, House managed to get up in one fluid motion and squeeze Wilson's shoulders reassuringly. "You're too high-strung for, what is it, seven-thirty in the morning."

"You're either drunk or out of your mind."

"And why can't I enjoy both simultaneously?"

Wilson closed his eyes, sighing. He opened them again to find House peering straight into his face, closer than he'd been before. His breath hitched.

"Come on. Let me get you updated on my latest experiment."

"I don't think calling patients 'experiments' is something the hospital will smile very favorably upon..."

"Whoever said I was talking about the patient?" House wriggled his eyebrows and chucked Wilson lightly under the chin. Something rippled through the oncologist's body, and it was definitely not the whiskey. "White board. Now."

"So. I call the ducklings in this morning. I tell them a patient has just been admitted for respiratory distress. 36-year-old male named Dr. James Wilson-yes, another one."

Wilson stretched out on an unfortunately uncomfortable metal chair. He was pretty sure any longer in these conference room seats would result in a slipped disc or two. Still, he mustered up his remaining energy to humor the man before him, who was all but preening. "Get to it, House."

"A bit testy this morning, aren't you? What, didn't sleep well?"

House waited, but Wilson didn't answer, so he continued after a sip of coffee, "I tell them we're on the case--not just because of the name similarity--but because he seems to also be breaking out in a fluorescent rash...but not on his chest, as one might suspect; only on his arms and legs. He's also struggling to with facial muscle coordination. Hmm. Interesting. I tell them I've upped the norepinephrine to try and balance the neurotransmitters. I then get them going on the white board, and in ten minutes they've outlined a list of medical diagnoses that are all relevant, all potentially correct." He gestured to the board, which was in fact laced with suggestions in House's scraggly handwriting. "I even get them to call up Cuddy and update her on the patients' progress, all of which is passed on from me. There's just one problem."

"Yes?"

"There is no patient"

Wilson stared at him.

"No 36-year-old male named Dr. James Wilson was ever admitted to the hospital this morning. No patient with respiratory distress or uncontrolled muscle movements, either. Someone _did_ come in with a rather alarming looking rash, but I'm still recovering from that one from clinic duty. Let's say we pretend that little horror never happened."

"_You made a patient up?_"

"Flawlessly."  
"With my name?"

"I was actually going to include your middle name, too, but I couldn't remember at the time."

"Why--House--I--" Wilson felt himself drift helplessly deeper into the cramped chair, even as he insisted, voice rising an octave, "What's your _point?_"

"The point is, I told Foreman, Chase, and Cameron five lies, the patient's name being the most blatant of them all. But I slipped in a bit of truth: norepinephrine in relation to neurotransmitters."

Wilson was incredulous. "They'd have no reason to suspect that you were lying, though."

"They had no reason to think I was being honest, either."

Wilson sighed while House watched himself stir extra sugar into his coffee, as if dissolving the crystals took maddening concentration. "For one thing to exist, you must have its exact opposite. There'd be no up without down, no left without right--"

"No right without wrong."

"No, that pesky morality stuff is all a matter of opinion."

"Ah, yes, of course." Wilson had gotten a throbbing headache in record time. And if they'd just taken that 100 million from the Name of Evil, maybe the hospital could've bought some chairs that didn't force people to sit like their spines were made of rubber trees.

House or comfortable chairs. Admittedly, it was a tempting trade at the moment.

The older man had confiscated a rye bagel from Wilson's paper plate and proceeded to dunk it into his coffee. Wilson grimaced.

"Nobody asked you," House retorted as he took a bite. "As I was saying. Opposites. Most importantly: There'd be no lying without truth, either. Take lies, for instance--"

Wilson wearily raised an objecting hand. "Why not truth?"

"Because everyone lies," House said, exasperated, rolling his eyes. "There's more of it to go around. Besides, this brings us back to my brilliant duping of Cuddy and the ducklings." As he spoke, he threw the other half of the soaked bagel in the garbage bin, apparently changing his mind about the taste.

Wilson smiled; House pretended to ignore him as he continued.

"Now, if you're done interrupting...Take lies. If all a person does is lie compulsively, that then, in effect, becomes their truth. At some point, they must be painfully honest to keep everyone else guessing about their sincerity."

"So you're saying lies should be believable."

"No. They need only to be believed, that's all."

"And in your opinion, that is the trick of keeping your job, is it? That's the cure-all way to fix every hospital malady you have?" Wilson shook his head. "Lies, lies, lies, and then a piece of truth?"

"No. It's my answer to _your _malady."

"Oh." The younger man raised his eyebrows, amazed at how far House was willing to push. "I love how this suddenly turns into a 'Let's-Diagnosis-Wilson' lecture."

House wandered away from the board. He stole another look at Wilson, face finally serious and borderline accusatory. "You've been more miserable in the past week than I've ever seen you. At least I embrace pain. You wallow in it."

"I'm sorry. Could you pass the Vicodin, please?"

House wasn't even listening to Wilson anymore. Weakness frustrated him; it took all the riling he could do to even get Wilson to retaliate and file through his cane. Still, the oncologist just wasn't there yet. _Have some backbone_, House had criticized, egging him on, prompting him to do something, anything. He wouldn't let Wilson be stagnant, wouldn't watch him back down. Not yet. Wilson hadn't let House, either, and it was time to return the favor, whether Wilson wanted it or not.

The oncologist had a sinking feeling he was getting the special treatment House reserved for only his most intolerable patients.

"You complain about living with me; then you complain about your apartment searching. You complain about Julie; then you complain about not being with her." The scathing irritation in his voice was unnerving. "You can't carp about two sides and expect lies to be believed!"

Wilson scoffed. "You think I'm _lying _about what makes me _unhappy_?"

"I think you're lying that you _are _unhappy."

"Oh, yes, House. I am just thrilled to be alive at the moment. There's nothing more I want from life than to screw up marriages and sleep like a homeless person on your couch."

"You're not homeless. You're living in my apartment."

"And you're making me miserable!"

"Is that another lie?"

"No." Wilson sat up straighter. "That would be my piece of truth."

House stared at him, slowly swirling a straw in his coffee. He thought he saw Wilson waver for a split second. His voice had calmed, secure, knowing he was right. "You sure?"

Wilson glanced away, running a hand over his face. He could feel his pulse humming unbearably in his ears. He might as well have been slapped on a slide and exposed under a microscope.

How was it that he could be so transparent while House remained completely perplexing?

"You aren't terrible with relationships," House said quietly, looking aside to give Wilson a moment. "You're not _obligated_ to screw them up."

"Yeah," Wilson laughed shortly, voice raw.

"But you're convinced that you'll do it again."

"How astute of you." _Do it again_? Wilson thought, the words sticking on some level._ Again...when? I'm not even seeing anyone. What is House getting at...?_

"You know what that is? A self-fulfilling prophesy."

The metaphorical microscope light shined brilliant, harsh, too bright to stand anymore. Wilson turned back against it, glaring.

"And do you know what _that_ is? Hypocrisy," he snapped.

"What?" House looked utterly shocked that an analysis would be turned on him during this, his dramatic moment of Wilson's exposure. "_Me_?"

"Yes. You act like you're a--an expert on every little thing in everyone else's life. If you know so much, why don't you take your own advice? You're just as miserable as the next person."

"I think we've already established that. At least I can operate on this level. You, on the other hand..."

"House, enough. I can't take these conversations anymore. This is supposed to be a friendship, not some way to make you feel better about yourself through my misery."

House stared at him, stunned. It was the first time Wilson had ever seen him speechless, bereft of any wisecrack-and he could have cared less. The younger man had swept up his briefcase, fumbling for hold of it.

"I'm moving out tonight."

Limping, House trailed after him, throwing facts out in the absence of what he could have said. "You don't have anywhere to go."

"I don't have reason to stay."

House reached out and grabbed his arm. Wilson caught his breath, pursing his lips together as he fought the urge to turn around, to change his mind.

"None at all?" House asked quietly.

Wilson stared downat the hand clutching his sleeve. There was a labyrinth of reasons why staying wasn't a good idea, why his emotions were so skewed. The best way was to get out before he did something he'd regret--again.

_Is that what House meant..._?

Wilson snatched his arm back, the action harsher than he'd wanted it to seem. He left, not really knowing where in fact he was going--both now, and when it came time to driving back home. Maybe he'd just stay the night at the hospital.

At the moment, though, the roof seemed just as good a retreat as any.


	3. No Pain

I guess I should have written a disclaimer in the beginning, but I'll do it now... I don't own "House" or any of the characters, but I _wish _I'd had the creative impulse to come up with this show. As it is, though, I will enjoy Tuesdays and suffice to write about the characters. Enjoy chapter three, and thanks for the reviews.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sure, House was manipulative. He pushed Wilson to see how far he could go. Some thousands of dollars worth in loans weren't the only thing Wilson was willing to sacrifice in the name of friendship. But even Wilson could baulk, hurt and disappointed, at House's actions and callous responses.

The morning still had a hint of dampness to it as Wilson stood on the roof, gazing out beyond the edge. He took a deep breath. New Jersey air. A slight mix of flat saltiness and economic smog, tainted with the sterilized whiff of the hospital. A drab gray hung like an old cloak on the horizon, just beginning to ignite with the lackadaisical sun.

Footsteps clattered up behind him. Heels.

"House, I--" The clicking stopped abruptly. "Oh, I thought you were"

"No." Wilson moved words experimentally around in his head, wondering which ones to use and which ones to drop out of his conversation. He particularly didn't want to speak at all at the moment, but with this new company that would be nearly impossible.

He glanced behind him, wishing she could notice his anxiousness and take the hint. "Hey, Cameron."

"Hey." She skimmed the area as if she had landed in the wrong place. "I didn't know you were here."

"Just came in."

"Oh. You didn't happen to see House anywhere, did you? We have this patient, and I really need to actually _examine_ him if we're going to figure anything out."

"Don't worry about it," Wilson said, returning his gaze to the skyline. "There's no patient and House is busy with his coffee in the white board room."

Cameron listened, only half-believing, while Wilson filled her in. She shook her head, befuddled as to why House would bother pulling such a seemingly random prank. Wilson had made sure to leave out his motive behind the whole escapade.  
"It's House. He's bored. He's childish. I don't know, take your pick."

Wilson was about to relax, thinking that might have ended the conversation, until he heard the clicking of heels join his side. He stole a look at the young woman. Her open face caught the ribbons of light streaming towards them, and when she met his eyes he tried best he could to alleviate the pained expression he wore. Women. Wonderful. All he needed was some sentimental view of the entire situation.

"How's, uh... How's the team doing?" Wilson interrupted before she could question him.

"The team? Fine. Why? Is there something we should know about?"

"No. I just..." This was pointless. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with the ducklings.

Maybe it didn't have anything to do with Cameron.

"No."

Wilson checked his watch pointedly. Cameron wasn't going anywhere, though.

"How's House doing?"

"Apparently just fine judging by this morning."

"Then why are you on the roof?"

"Fresh air."

She paused for a moment, suspicious, then allowed a nod. "Okay. I just thought you might know why he's been acting weird lately."

"He's always acting weird."

"No. Not like this," Cameron insisted, her voice trailing as she tried to pinpoint just what was so off recently. "He's...distant. Like there's something in his head that's preoccupying him." She smiled softly. "I don't know, probably just a case he's working on, or his _parents _coming into town."

Despite himself, Wilson chuckled at Cameron's last facetious remark. He glanced down at his hands, which were gripping the railing of the roof and white around the knuckles.

Cameron watched him carefully, but turned slightly to leave anyway. "Well, let us know if he says anything to you"  
"I probably won't be seeing him."

"He has been busy," Cameron acknowledged. "But, you know, later tonight..."

"No. I'm moving out finally." Maybe if he said it enough times, it would be easier.

"Oh." Then, after a pause, "Why? You've found a place?"

"I will be finding one."

He seemed far too brief in his responses for everything to be all right. Cameron's great talent for sensitive prodding was that she didn't realize it was not entirely sensitive-it was closer to nosey, but most found her sweet enough to humor her innocent prying.

"Something happened with House?"

"Yes. No. I... I guess I just realized it's impossible to live with someone who refuses to do the dishes and hasn't grown out of college pranks." He forced a smile, shrugging, trying, "I didn't even pull that stuff in the dorms back at school."

Cameron smiled back. "But you've found a temporary place in the meantime, right?"

"I have work to catch up on here anyway."

"You're not sleeping at the hospital."

"Why not? I'll get more rest here than at House's apartment."

Her eyes flashed. Wilson couldn't decide if it was curiosity or pity, or something else entirely. The sun was playing strange tricks on the horizon, illuminating the windows behind her and drenching her silhouette in white-gold.

"Well. I have a couch if you need it. It's better than the conference room chairs."

He watched her disappear back into the hospital. An ache in his back relentlessly reminded him of its sleeping preference.

----------------------------

For once, Wilson didn't have to cook. The occasion was nice, though with Cameron fussing around the kitchen it did seem a bit awkwardly similar to a matrimonial setting. Wilson hung up his jacket and set his briefcase down in the corner, where she'd put her items as well.

It was later in the evening and, accompanied by amber-colored wine, the two lounged in the living room. Cameron was sitting across from him on the opposite sofa, perusing his face like she would a medical encyclopedia. It would be a miracle to get through this night without becoming her latest concern.

He had the urge to put his feet up on the coffee table. The glass top looked much more pristine than House's, though, so he kept his shoes planted to the carpeting.

Wilson tapped his glass aimlessly with his thumb. The topic was inevitable; he might as well take the initiative and start it. "Why did you like him?" he asked suddenly.

Oddly, Cameron didn't seem surprised at the turn in conversation. There was only one person "he" could be. She gazed into mid-space, losing herself in quiet contemplation. "I guess... He was right." She shrugged. "I saw a charity case."

"You felt bad for him."

"Don't you?"

He took a sip from the glass. The wine tasted brittle on his tongue. "No."

"That's why he likes you."

"Well. He has a creative way of showing it."

Cameron leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You know that, though. You see it in the way he acts all the time. He's just...especially rude to people he's afraid could change him. It intimidates him."

Wilson nodded distantly, looking beyond her and to the wallpaper over her shoulder. Bland pattern. Long, nearly negligent blue lines. Too stiff. He missed the mellow green.

_Where did that thought come from?_

"What do you like about him?"

Wilson blinked, fading back into reality. "Hmm? What do I like...?"

"About House."

"He's, uh..." Wilson scratched a non-existent itch behind his ear. "He's a good friend, in his own way." He glanced up, thrown off when he realized Cameron was waiting, waiting for him to say something more. "He's...pompous, yes, but..."

"You like that quality?"

"In him, yeah. It works. I don't know."

"Do you miss him?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows in defense. "Do _you_?"

"I never knew him enough to miss him."

"Well, it's not like I have him living in my head, either. He still does things that..."

"That...?"

Wilson shrugged, letting his sentiments trail off into another sip of the wine.

_God, what I'd give for whiskey--_

Quickly, he set down the glass as if it were contagious. Clearing his throat, he sat back on the couch, stretching and trying to look tired without it seeming as if the plague had just settled down upon him.

"Uh, Allison, look, I don't want to be rude, but I think I'm going to try and catch some sleep if you don't mind."

Cameron stole a look at the clock behind him; 9:30. That was ridiculously early, but he had had a long day. Still, worry was smeared across her face like a bad finger-painting picture.

"I'll get you a blanket or something"

This was definitely not good, Wilson thought, glancing back at the wallpaper. It was tempting to blame sleep deprivation again, but that excuse only worked so many times.

_After the dog eats your third term project, it soon becomes glaringly apparent that you don't even have a dog._

Wilson laughed aloud. That sounded just like House. Great. He might be out of his apartment, but maybe the man wasn't out of his head just yet.

Cameron draped the heavy cotton sheet over the arm of the couch. She thought the smile on Wilson's face seemed a bit out of place.

"James."

She sat down on the cushion beside him. He immediately flashed back to the millions of times he'd had to help her through giving patients bad news. The woman was absolutely incapable of losing hope. Nice quality in general; not so effective in a hospital. A patient could have a metastasized tumor the size of Montana and she'd still insist there was a chance.

"Look... I know we don't talk that much, but if you ever need something--"

"Allison, I'm good. You've given me a couch for the night. That's all I need."

"You sure?"

_What, is that the phrase of the day?_

Cameron startled as she caught something in his eyes. She knew that look. She'd seen it on her own face, coming home from the hospital that day, 21 years old with a far too heavy burden on her heart, that weight she'd knowingly taken on.

She'd insisted to her friends and family there was no pain. She'd accepted the marriage in some ways like a martyr. House thought it was pathetic, she figured. But House had never really loved anyone.

At least, not her. But the pain was fading. No pain, no pain.

She looked him over carefully. They'd both lost relationships, both in different ways, but his character didn't seem to fit the man she briefly knew from work. To mess up multiple times in wedlock, that takes almost as much dedication as it does to stay faithful. But was he a seductive or was he seduced? She couldn't tell.

"Cameron." Wilson looked up from unfolding the blanket. "Why did you offer a place to me?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I... I don't like seeing people sleep in a hospital. It's nice to go home to somewhere, isn't it?" In self-defense, she turned the question around. "Why didn't you just go home to House's?"

"I told you."

"No. You didn't."

Wilson paused, mind reverting to another track. "You invited me here because you wanted to find out about House," he said slowly.

"N-no, I didn't."

Wilson shrugged. "That's fine. I understand."

"But Wilson--"

"Even the self-sacrificing have their motives. Not every single action is altruistic."

Cameron stared hard at him. "Then don't lie to me either. You've put up with House for years. A few pranks aren't enough to make you leave." She waited, the silence taut between them. "He _got_ to you."

"What do you mean, he 'got' to me?"

There was more she could have said. There was far more that she thought. But the expression on his face confirmed it without words.

"Good night, Wilson."


	4. Patience

Thanks for the reviews, everyone. Glad to know people are reading! Here's Chapter 4...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson knew he'd overslept when he realized how bright the sun was through the window. His body had vastly overcompensated for the lack of rest it had gotten in the past few days, but the least Cameron could've done was wake him.

Throwing the blanket off, he was about to run to the bathroom and wash up when he noticed the newspaper beside his half-finished wine glass. It was folded open to the classified ads. A few paragraphs were circled in blue ink. All apartments for rent. At the top of the page, in the white space above _Classified_, a flourishing hand had written,

_Do you want House or a home?_

"Cute, Cameron," Wilson said, though it was obvious the place was empty; she'd already left for the hospital. After a second skim of the paper, he folded it in half and tucked it beside his briefcase.  
Late though he was, he realized he'd have to go back to House's apartment to retrieve some clothes to wear. His wrinkled suit and pants he still wore from yesterday were not going to cut it. A quick shower wouldn't hurt either. He peeked into Cameron's bathroom, but given that she only had mango shower gel and apple blossom shampoo, he figured he'd wait to get to House's.

--------------------------------------------------------------

It was nearly eleven by the time Wilson had fought through traffic to arrive at 221 B. He took out his key, but was surprised to find the apartment open.

He was even more surprised to hear piano music floating around inside. He recognized the tune immediately. _Hot Cross Buns_.

When the apartment door closed with a click, so did the music. House emerged from the bedroom, swallowing a pill as he limped over.

"The prodigal son has returned," House joked. "Sleep well?"

"You're not at work."

"No, I am," House assured him. He twirled his cane idly between his fingers. "This is a hologram image I designed to keep you company while I'm not here."

Wilson set his briefcase on the couch--his bed was still made, the sheets and pillow still there, waiting--and turned to rummage through his knapsack underneath the coffee table. White shirt, green tie. Khaki pants. They were the first things he grabbed. Luckily, they matched.

"Did you call in sick?"

"No," House replied. "I figured it was rude saying I was too sick to treat sick people. Kind of undercuts their condition, don't you think?" He paused, waiting for Wilson to answer, but the younger man had retreated to the bathroom to change. House leaned against the wall, calling over the running water, "Are you sick, too?"

"No, just running late."

"Forget about work. I heard that patient with respiratory distress and freaky rash has been cured."

"Are you suggesting we play hooky?"

"Don't be so immature. This isn't high school."

Wilson's laugh came muffled through the door and the toothbrush in his mouth. "Right. I forgot."

"Come on," House baited. He tapped the cane on the handle of the bathroom door, unable to poke Wilson's leg like usual. "I have a Corvette sitting outside and gas prices are three cents cheaper than they were yesterday."

Spitting into the sink, Wilson turned his attention to his hair. At least he had more than House. Typically, he'd spend more time with it, but time was not permitting. He slipped into a new outfit and reemerged, straightening the tie as he went along.

"I'm going to work like a productive member of society."

"Like lemmings off a cliff," House muttered, and watched as Wilson shrugged on his overcoat, picked up the briefcase, a newspaper, and left.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Halfway to Princeton-Plainsboro, Wilson turned off the road and took another street. He glanced down at the newspaper ads, which he had propped against the steering wheel and had decided to consult.

_Do you want House or a home?_

Wilson creased the top over so he couldn't read it anymore, but the words stayed ingrained. He turned on the radio to drown out the piano he heard in his head. Dropping his eyes down to the newspaper again, he read off the first address to himself. Open-house today, it said.

"All right," Wilson sighed. He tapped the steering wheel. He hadn't felt this nervous since the first day of kindergarten. "Here we go."

--------------------------------------------------------------

Money wasn't a factor. Proximity, setting, condition, and neighbors were. The apartment had to be reasonably near Princeton-Plainsboro; it would also have to be somewhere devoid of a "drive-by-shooting" threat zone. Wilson wasn't asking for the Taj Mahal-as long as it didn't look like it needed a _condemned_ poster slapped across its unhinged door, he could fix some plumbing and electricity issues if need be. And, given his previous living arrangements, he couldn't really think of any neighbors that could cause him more trouble than House.

"...And dis here's the living room/bathroom area."

The man's accent was so thick, it sounded like he was choking on New Jersey's brogue.

"Living room _and_ bathroom...?" Wilson surreptitiously checked the sole of his shoe for whatever gleaming liquid he'd stepped on. Something was leaking out of the floorboards, the wet streak running right back to the toilet that stood out gaudily in the corner of the room. The owner apparently didn't notice.

"Yeh. I wuz gonna throw up a wall, but it was jest me, what the hell."

"There's a toilet next to the coffee table."

"So the magazines are right der fer you. So what's the problem?"

_Obviously, you seem to have some trouble with the plumbing in your brain as well. All the shitty ideas are clogging it up. I'd get that checked. It's a hazard._

"Hey. What's so funny?"

Wilson hadn't even realized he'd laughed aloud. He shook his head and told him he'd give a call back if he were interested. That itself deserved another laugh.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

All right. The snark comments are getting a bit old.

_Are they? You were enjoying them before._

Yes. But I've seen six places in the past two hours, and those disasters have done nothing but make me envious of homeless people in their boxes. At least cardboard looks somewhat stable.

_You have this strange motif with homeless people, have you noticed that? Freudian subconscious, maybe?_

Sounds good to me.

_Come on, Jimmy. Not all the apartments were that bad. The one had an open veranda and everything._

It was missing part of the back wall!

_Let's not be picky. Aw, come on, don't give me that look. You've only been driving around for one afternoon. You're Jewish. Your people wandered aimlessly through the desert for 40 years. I would've thought you'd have more patience._

House, as long as you're here, why don't you give me some constructive advice for once?

_Don't be ridiculous. That's not why you want me here. Thanks for remembering to imagine my Vicodin, though._

That's me. Mr. Thoughtful.

_You could've left out the leg thing, though. Why do I have to limp in your imagination, too?_

Because, as a wise old sage once said, 'That's part of your charm.' Honestly, House, I don't know why I want your opinion on these apartments anyway.

_You don't. You've dragged me along for comic relief. And because you do miss me._

Why does everyone think I miss you? First Cameron, now you...

_It's natural. And considering how far you tried to push me away, you should've figured I'd come springing back. Ever take a slinky and do that? Stretch it out _really _far, then BOING! Back it comes. Usually smacks you pretty good in the face, too._

Ican't say I've ever done that.

_Maybe it's just me_.

House. I just think it would be better if I finally found a place. Permanently. You're the one who kept saying I was running away from the divorce, anyway. So I got a lawyer; the papers are signed. It's over. Now there's just the apartment...

_You're not moving out because of the divorce. You're moving out because I'm there_.

House, don't congratulate yourself. You're intolerable at times, but not unbearable.

_I would've thought those words meant the same thing._

You know what I'm saying. I put up with you.

_You enjoy putting up with me._

_Admit it._

Fine. I do.

_Very good. That's the first step: Acknowledging that you do have a problem. So proud of you, Jimmy._

Wonderful. I'm addicted to you.

_That sounds potentially awkward. Unless you want to put music to it._

Back to Broadway, again?

_Did you ever realize how ridiculous some of the greatest songs sound if you take the music away from the lyrics?_

As in...

_"When I'm watching my TV, and a man comes on and tells me how white my shirts can be..."_

"...But he can't be a man cuz he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me."

_Exactly. We don't listen to music. We just hear it._

What? I thought you liked Jagger. And that's a great line.

_I know. I just wanted to see if you'd sing along if I started. Gotcha._

Thanks.

_Now... Weird lyrics are the Beatles, post-India. "Octopus's Garden." I'll say no more._

I didn't know you liked the Beatles.

_Did I say that?_

"Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease." Know that one?

_Ah-hah, Freud again. No... "Come Together."_

_Doesn't matter. You're thinking about me._

How? That song doesn't even make any sense!

_But is it mere coincidence that you picked the line with "armchair" when you're running from my couch? Is it my disease you feel? Am I a toxin or intoxicating?_

That's stretching it, House.

_You're the one with the slinky_.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson parked the car on House's street and leaned back, sighing. He glanced beside him to the empty passenger's seat, figuring he had skipped out on work and ended up spending a day driving around with House.

So much for that apartment.

But he needed to find one, didn't he? He couldn't very well crash at House's forever. The sooner he moved out, the sooner things would become clearer again.

They had been clear before, right? Of course. This is House he was talking about. Teacher, friend, misanthrope, reluctant confidante, _House_. He hadn't been confused before, had he? Lines hadn't been blurred.

_Or has everything just snapped into focus?_


	5. Composure

"Ditched work, I heard."

Wilson froze in the doorway. The traffic from outside joggled within the silence of the room, punctuated only by the succinct clacking sounds of House's cane as he got up from the couch and moved to the kitchen.

"Heard from who?"

"A less-than-happy Cuddy left about five messages. She was obviously having a bad day. Shirt too tight or something."

Wilson hesitantly closed the door and let himself into the apartment. The newspaper crinkled in his hand like a guilty thought.

"So…you stayed here all day?" Wilson prompted as House rummaged through the fridge. He was disappointed to find Wilson was no longer storing his food there. Everything he wanted to eat or drink, the oncologist made last minute—otherwise, House always managed to get at it first.

The fridge looked depressingly empty. Maybe he'd just order Chinese.

"Went out in the 'Vette. Cops sure like to pull those over."

"You got a ticket?"

"You'd know if you'd come along," House retorted. He closed the fridge and delved through a pile of papers on the counter until he found the phonebook. "What was so important that you had to lie about going to work to get it done?"

"I _was_ going to work. Then… I got distracted."

"Debbie from accounting…?"

"House. Can we let that go already? There's nothing going on, for the last time…"

"Fine, fine. Suit yourself. But you're free to break as many hearts as you want to, now. Not that that ever stopped you before."

Wilson watched distantly as House punched in the Chinese takeout phone number on the cell. After a quick name and address—the place practically knew him—he rambled off the order.

It was all something he'd memorized from the menu in the past—Wilson didn't even have to listen to know what House was going to say. House had a habit of finding one thing and sticking with it. Wilson once ordered something different and House had stared at him as if he suggested dropping a nuclear bomb on the kitchen table.

"…Sweet and sour chicken…"

"Do you like the Beatles?"

House clapped a hand over the bottom half of the phone, glancing up. "I try not to eat anything that requires an exterminator."

"No, not for _takeout_." Wilson wanted to roll his eyes glibly, but his head was too preoccupied. "The British-Invasion Beatles."

"…and a side of shanghai noodles… yeah." He glanced up at Wilson while the person on the other end of the line was obviously talking. "Is this meant to date me?"

Wilson tilted his head, shrugging a shoulder.

"Well—no, that's fine, I think that's enough—uh, the post-India stuff was a bit strange."

The corners of Wilson's lips twitched, but his face couldn't break into a full-fledged smile. "I knew you'd say that."

With a click, the phone call was ended, and the food situation would be settled in a half hour or so. House shuffled towards the bedroom, Vicodin rattling in his pocket.

Wilson trailed after him, waiting for further questioning that never came. He caught the door before it closed in his face.

"Need something?" House asked. "If not, I'm kind of busy."

The younger man glanced around the room. After not having been at work, there was little to no medical records House had to consult, and once again only his favorite magazines were available for quick reference on his desk.

"Doing _what_?"

House scanned the space around him like it was painfully obvious, like he pitied Wilson for missing the point. "Can't you see there's a whole lot of nothing that's just waiting to be done? I need a constructive way to waste my time, you know."

"House." Wilson caught the door again, stopping House from closing it on him. "Aren't you—don't you want to—"

"Stop talking? Yes, Wilson, that's a great idea. You first."

"_House_!" Wilson squeezed through the door, ending the incessant battle of stopping it with his foot as the other man pushed against it. He stood, arms crossed, draining a persistent stare into his face. "Don't you care either way about anything?"

"That's a rather broad topic." He wandered away from Wilson, making his way toward the piano bench, philosophizing with typically snide, dramatic flair, "You might as well say, 'Do you care about global warming?' In that case, no. But, 'Do you care about sea level rising so high it floods your home, then, yes, I would care."

"Do you care if I move out or not?"

"Wilson, you're making me just as miserable as you claim _you_ are by refusing to make a decision. I assume you found _some_ apartment this afternoon."

The words repeated in his head like a skipping movie reel, drenched in illusory black and white. "How'd you know I was looking for an apartment?"

"Again, that little source I mentioned before. She apparently has a source of her own. Some overly philanthropic young lady who can't seem to keep her charity cases at the office."

A flush of red rushed up Wilson's neck, spreading to his face and ears. Thank God the lamp wasn't turned to its brightest setting. At least House wouldn't be able to catch his embarrassment in the half-lit room.

Of course, none of that mattered, depending on how big Cameron's mouth was. Did she tell House what she wrote? Or was she selfish enough—even just a little bit—to keep House in the dark about the whole situation?

_Situation? What situation? Do I even _have_ a situation_?

"House." Wilson swallowed with some difficulty, but raised his chin and forced the other to meet his eyes as he repeated slowly, each word carefully weighted, "Do you care if I move out or not?"

House turned his gaze to the piano bench, but he didn't sit down. He tapped the spiraled, mahogany leg of the furniture with his cane as if appealing to it for an answer. "I think somebody else needs a hooker."

Wilson felt his composure crumbling. None of this was fair. Never had he known someone who continually persisted on evading every question imposed on him. There were people who relied on self-defense; and then there were the people who strung wire fencing over the cement walls they'd built to surround their trench-encircled bomb shelter.

The younger man gathered the remnants of his voice together, arms falling to gesture with pointed conviction at House.

"Yesterday, you gave me _my_ diagnosis. Lies, lies, lies, and then a bit of truth. That was your brilliant theory. I didn't ask for it. I didn't even want it. But you gave it to me anyway."

"I see it's worked so well."

"So this is _your_ diagnosis, House. This is how _your_ wired."

"I take it not listening isn't an option."

Wilson pursed his lips, ignoring wisecracks, House's desperate attempts for detours. "Your entire life has become a Baby Albert experiment."

"I know not of what you speak," House replied flippantly, though Wilson had no doubt he could repeat the classical psychology story backwards if he wanted to. "Enlighten me."

He took a breath. If there was one thing House couldn't stand, it was personal position based solely on emotion. Emotions were impulsive; they lied. And while House's gut was also incredibly impulsive, he insisted that instinct was the very epicenter of truth. Wilson knew he had to appear together and logical for House to give him any credence, despite the fact that the younger man felt tremors coursing through his veins.

"Watson. He was a psychologist in the early 1900s. He taught a child to fear a white rat—one like Steve McQueen," he offered, hoping to keep House's attention by throwing in something more than just rehashed facts. "Every time the child was shown the rat, Watson rang a gong. The child associated that loud, fearful noise with the rat, and so came to fear the rat. But Watson realized the experiment had done something else, too. Not only was Baby Albert afraid of rats, but he was also terrified of anything white and fluffy: Rabbits, cotton balls, even Santa Claus, with the beard." Wilson looked him over. House reached for a pill. "What does that tell you?"

"Someone didn't have a very happy Christmas…"

"_No_," persisted Wilson as House downed the Vicodin. "The child _generalized_. And that's what you do. Every time a person comes into your life with relationship potential, you get scared because of one bad experience."

"I see their white fluffy beards and I run for the hills?"

"You are incorrigible."

"But that flabbergasted look on your face is so charming. Besides, your theory's completely wrong. I happen to be just as madly in love with Steve McQueen as I was when I first saw that beady-eyed beauty."

"That may be the weirdest metaphor you've ever used for Stacy."

House looked him over. "We were never talking about Stacy. We were talking about relationships. In general."

Wilson turned away, face burning. House hadn't moved from his spot beside the piano bench, and the pain of being so close to the brink of confession was unnerving. Torn, the younger man turned away into the hallway, retreating as far as he could away from House's room. He ended up at the hall's end, in front of the sink, staring at the wall, coming to his dead-end.

He gazed at his own reflection in the mirror as if he were studying someone else's portrait. Years were scrawled across his face; his brown eyes deep, riddled with copper flecks, veiled by commitments he couldn't make. He shut them, picturing himself folding up, like the blankets strewn on the couch— misplaced, temporarily used, then put away. Heavy, smothering in himself.

Something warm pressed up against him from behind. His eyes opened sharply, surprised, and his body automatically went to move out of the way, thinking House had walked into him while trying to get to the sink. Then he felt hands at his hips in a light embrace.

He watched in the mirror, confused, thoughts diluted, as House sighed into the hollow space where his shoulder met his neck. Instinctively, Wilson angled his face, allowing House to nuzzle against his ear, his hair, his temple.

"What…" Wilson struggled not to do anything more than sigh, conflicted in his need. He took a trembling breath. "What are you…?"

"Checking for mangos. Apples."

Wilson murmured a wordless reply, drifting off into House's proximity; falling into him. His eyes fluttered closed again—the mirror's reflection of them both confirmed nothing; it merely tossed the impossible image back at him. This would never be happening; House would never...

But with eyes closed, he could convince himself that senses didn't lie; there was something authentic and brilliantly true about the sensory explosion rippling through every inch of his body. He could feel House's slight scruff on his chin; the smell of cologne crisp as a linen shirt; that warm breath in his ear—

_This is ridiculous, so close…the hologram again…I must still be asleep on Cameron's couch_…

"Did you sleep with her?"

Wilson's eyes flew open, his fragile contentment shattering like a fallen mirror. "_What?_"

Not moving closer or further from Wilson, House considered for a moment, lips brushing against his skin. "No. A woman has to make you feel good. Cameron pulled a guilt trip on you instead, didn't she?"

"House, how could you _say _that?" He turned back to face him, insulted, but unable to disguise his flushed skin and heavy-lidded eyes. He took a step away, soaking in the vacant air as House's hands fell from his sides. "Cameron told you I stayed over?"

"Was there anything she left out?"

Wilson just stared at him. "That depends what she told you."


	6. DC al Fine

House had walked back into the bedroom, as if the piano provided some secret respite. Head reeling, Wilson kept in stride with him. His face bristled from where House had leaned close, body rippling like a field cut through by wind. The absence of an embrace was blatantly cruel.

"Cameron never even called," House said shortly. "I just assumed that's where you would be."

"That's a lie."

"Check the answering machine."

"What for? You'd just delete what you wouldn't want me to hear anyway."

"I wouldn't bother anymore, Wilson. You're apt to tell me anything if I give you the opportunity to."

"Do you think I'm that easy to mess with?"

"Yes."

Wilson ran a hand through his mussed brown hair. His chest felt like an ice sculpture left out in the sun too long, and now it was ready to be wheeled back out to the ocean, poured into another nondescript tumult that he could never quite surge above. House sat down on the bench, swinging his legs around to one side—one smoothly, one stiffly. It was how he acted, too, Wilson realized. His laconic cynicism sheltered every humane instinct he tried so desperately to eradicate. Not this time.

House had barely played three measures when Wilson hastily came up behind him, touching his face and leading his mouth to his.

Spearmint toothpaste, coffee, a fading undercurrent of whiskey.

The blend of tastes was stunningly more realistic than Wilson had expected. He'd pictured this moment like a crumpled postcard or sorts: something short, brief, reduced down to the absolute necessity; something that carried not much depth in description, but the sharpness of the picture was what mattered.

Every second rushed him closer to the inevitable moment when it would be over, when House would roughly shove him away. Wilson half-expected their friendship to be tossed out as well. There was no explaining a kiss. Reasons went numb on his tongue.

_Now, he's going to now…_

Wilson winced as he felt House's hand on his shoulders. But instead, House's fingers slid up into his hair, entangling in the short brown locks that dangled against his nape. A surprised moan escaped Wilson's mouth as he slowly kneeled on the bench, moving around to sit beside House, then in front of him, so warm underneath, lips reluctant to part. Stopping meant talking, talking meant explaining, explaining meant ending.

Not yet.

"Leg," House murmured.

It took him a second, but Wilson vaguely noticed he'd practically thrown his whole weight on House. Not good, especially with his left knee dangerously close to House's bad thigh. Stroking a tentative hand apologetically through House's hair, Wilson leaned back and let him move forward.

Too far—

Wilson's arms flailed, grasping for balance in House's shirt as he toppled backwards, spine colliding with the piano and sparking a raucous barrage of notes that tormented the air. Both immediately stopped, the interruption of sound cutting through to reason.

House ducked his head, as if humility was something that floated innocuously just below eye contact, drifting amid the half-space between he and his friend. Wilson wanted to lean in and pick up where they left off, but a diverging chasm was slipping between them; he could feel it. It frightened him.

House cleared his throat. "Most people make out on a couch, not a bench. I don't know. It's more, uh, _comfortable_, maybe?"

"House." Wilson gazed back at him. The other man still had his eyes focused on his mouth, close and yet not touching. Arms were entwined; Wilson was surprised, but encouraged, at the strength with which House held him near. "Look." He wet his lips, voice strained and struggling for breath. "Look at me."

"I am. God. Jimmy."

"I—can we—?"

House spoke quickly, voice gravelly, still watching the breath move in and out between Wilson's swollen lips, feeling his chest rise and fall against his own. "It took you how many failed marriages to realize you liked men?"

Wilson was already shaking his head. On some level, he'd expected the question. "It took me nearly twenty years to realize I was in love with you."

"Great line. Use it often?"

"Saved it for you."

A revelatory flicker passed sporadically through House's blue orbs. Wilson tried to keep him still with his own eyes, grasping for the evasive vulnerability that clung just below House's surface. He wanted to tell him. Everything. This was not some lustful feeling he was falling into as if it were a random, convenient crack in the sidewalk. This was not something that he'd take one dose of to feel better about himself. This was not something that only temporarily clogged the pain, and would merely let it fester and gather like bacteria until it draped every emotion in curtains of dusk. No.

This, Wilson realized, wasn't selfish. It was not fleeting.

The doorbell rang.

The younger man moved close again, but House evaded his lips, touching a finger to them. He stared off over Wilson's shoulder, eyes clouded.

"House."

The doorbell rang again.

"House—"

"Get up, Jimmy."

"Forget the damn takeout."

"Move."

"_House_—"

"Come _on_, James."

House pushed at Wilson's chest, causing the younger man to catch his balance again by reaching backwards, his palms landing on random piano keys once more. The sound scraped painfully against his ears.

"Stop. Ignore it. It doesn't matter." Wilson fumbled to touch his face again, but House had slid himself off of the bench and was leaving the bedroom. "Please."

House stalled for a second in the doorway. Framed in the hallway light, Wilson watched his lanky frame shake slightly with a breath.

_Turn around_.

A plummeting feeling accosted Wilson as he hung in the balance. Helpless, spiraling. As a child, that same sensation came from bleeding knees and a desperate tug at a mother's skirt for attention; he'd felt it again during that numb night only a few months ago—his chest exploding in a cataclysmic burst of flares—lying side-by-side with Julie as he realized they were miles, eons, lives apart.

It was that same feeling. Wilson stood up on weak knees and made his way over to House, wrapping his arms around him again, encouraging the other to lay down his guard. Lips again. Somewhat soft, unexpectedly, rimmed in prickling facial hair that felt strange, but not uncomfortable. Warm. Deep. Divulging.

The doorbell rang.

House cut him off, pulling away as if he'd just pressed sensitive skin to a blue-white flame, scorching himself. Wilson struggled to keep him close, but he watched the erosion of affection in House's eyes.

He ran his hands under the collar of House's shirt, even as House took an awkward step back. Wilson was captivated by his expression; it was some melancholic preservation he found in its decomposition—the crumbling of eyes, the downward fall of lips, the wrinkles that rippled across skin as though reality had wrought chaos below the surface.

Wilson wondered if sometimes he felt alive because he hurt so much.

But no. He felt alive now; he was spilling over the brim with the intensity of it here, now, so close, wrapped up consensually, physically and emotionally tied, bound, in a shared gaze.

"Tell me." Wilson pressed a light kiss to his lips. Once, light, barely a brush. He let it float between them. "Tell me truth."

House gazed back at him. Floated away.

"The doorbell's ringing."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Hey, Jimmy_.

Hey.

_I wasn't sure if you were going to talk to me_.

I invited you to come along, didn't I?

_For a little bit anyway. If I get too sarcastic, I'm left to hitchhike, right?_

No, I like the sarcasm. Although that cane is a great way to make people nice to you.

_Pff. Yeah, right_. _In theory_.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

_Jimmy?_

Hmm?

_Are you ignoring me_?

No. Just thinking.

_What about? Me?_

No. My stomach's a bit queasy, that's all. Must've been the Chinese last night.

_You didn't eat any._

Oh yeah. Right.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

_Jimmy?_

Could you stop calling me that?

_No. It's habitual now. Besides, you like it._

You're making this hard.

_Not so hard. It's not like you've gone off to live in exile. I'll see you tomorrow._

You won't even look at me. You'll send Cameron or Foreman or Chase to talk to me about the patient like I've contracted some plague. Shit, you'll avoid the entire oncology department. I know it.

_Maybe. For a few days_.

Why? Is it that hard to be open with someone?

_You told me you loved me_.

And you got distracted with takeout.

_Don't simplify this._

I'm not. I'm just confused.

_So am I. So just…give me a few days_.

And then…

_Then it will go back to normal._

Normal.

_Yeah. Banter back and forth, you listen as I talk, you offer advice I should take but can't._

Are you really afraid I'll change you? That's not what I want to do.

_But you have already_.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Here's the apartment. Up this street. Brick building; second story.

_Isn't this the one with the toilet…?_

Let's not discuss it, all right? It's only temporary until I find somewhere else.

_Or you could just fix the _plumbing.

Or I could just fix the plumbing.

_Is it this one here?_

Yep. See? The one with the bushes out front.

_Laced in poison ivy?_

I wasn't going to be picky.

_No, but you're sure going to be itchy._

You coming in?

_I think I'll stay here._

Oh. All right.

_But… You do know you can come over sometime, right?_

Not now.

_No. Not for a few days. Give me some time_.

Right. Some time.

_But you know where I'll be, Jimmy._

Yeah. Right at home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

END


End file.
